


Post-Op Fluff

by Galtori



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anesthesia, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 02:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17013723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galtori/pseuds/Galtori
Summary: John just had minor surgery. He's so loopy he can’t remember who Sherlock is, and just goes full-on Captain J. Watson flirt mode. The results? The world's only consulting detective is left a blushing, stammering mess.From back when there was a flood of post-op anesthesia fluff pieces.





	Post-Op Fluff

**Author's Note:**

> This fic lacks a beta and was thrown together one morning years and years ago. Part of migrating a lot of smaller fics from Tumblr to AO3.

John’s eyes fluttered awake, and despite his own thoughts, Sherlock released a breath he’d been holding for quite some time.  
“How are you feeling?” He asked, not trusting himself to say much more. John looked Sherlock up and down, a frown creasing his brow for a moment before he smiled up at Sherlock.  
“Not too bad. You look better, though.” And then he winked. Sherlock blinked for a moment.  
“Are you speaking to me?” Sherlock even took the precaution of glancing over his shoulder.  
“‘Course I am. What, did you think I was talking to someone else as pretty as you?” John was sporting a lopsided grin, and Sherlock felt his stomach doing some sort of aerial maneuver.  
“Uh, jhzohn-i” Sherlock had to stop himself. He’d only done that once before. Why was he doing it again? Why was his heart racing?  
“Easy, there, gorgeous.” John reached a hand out to him, tracing calming circles over the back of his hand. “You’ve already impressed me.”  
John took a closer look at their entwined hands. “God, what I’d love to see you work with those hands. What are the calluses on your fingertips from?”  
“Violin.” Sherlock replied, the words leaving his mouth before he could think about it.  
“Well, let me tell you that this Captain would love to see you at dinner with me tonight. Maybe we can head to your place afterwards, hear some of that violin?”  
“And how do you know that I’d be interested?”  
“I’m a doctor. Pupils blown, rapid pulse, licking your lips. And you like my pace. I wouldn’t set it if you didn’t like it.” God, he was right. Sherlock could pick a crime scene apart, but John Watson could pick him apart.  
“I’d be more than flattered for dinner, Dr. Watson.” Sherlock couldn’t help but tell the truth. “But for now, you need to rest. They won’t let you out of the hospital for a few more hours.”  
John’s forehead creased in confusion before he saw the IV attached to his right hand. “Damn. Then how did I end up with such a gorgeous man at my bedside? I’m guessing fresh out of surgery, given how good I feel.”  
“It’s a long story.” It wasn’t exactly a fib, but part of Sherlock’s heart broke. “Tell you what, if you remember all of this tonight, I will happily take you out to dinner, and play my finest concerto for you.”  
“How do I know you’ll keep your end of the deal? You can’t just promise a doctor a meal and then skip out later.”  
“I won’t leave your side, you have my word.”  
“Can I have something else?”  
“Such as?”  
“A kiss. Women and men on three continents have said that once they kissed me, they could not step away.” The glint was back in John’s eye, and Sherlock could not find it in him to protest. So he leaned down and gently kissed his flatmate on the cheek.  
“Oi. Don’t I get to show off a little?” He grasped the collar of Sherlock’s Belstaff, keeping the detective still long enough for a peck of his own on Sherlock’s cheek. “I won’t press you for a kiss on the lips. I’ll save that for dessert.” And with that, John yawned and Sherlock settled back into his chair by John’s side.  
“You won’t remember this.”  
“Oh, really? You think you know me that well? Have you seen me recover from anesthesia before?” That made Sherlock blink. He never had. “Mmm. And there we have it. I may do strange things when I’m out of it, but I always remember.” Sherlock stopped. He would have stopped John if he had known he would remember. For a moment, Sherlock felt himself panic.  
“Easy there, gorgeous. Don’t worry. It’ll all be fine. Just let me sleep for a little while. Then we’ll get back to chatting. I want to know more about you.” John mumbled before he drifted off to sleep again.

Once Sherlock finally calmed himself, he slid deep into his Mind Palace, examining his time with John, and comparing it against what he had just witnessed. He knew that John knew how to charm any woman he came in contact with, though there were a great many who were fool enough to pass him over. But that never deterred John, who would simply shrug and try again with someone else. In a way, he was a shameless flirt. But he was a gentleman, always respectful of other’s boundaries.  
Looking back, Sherlock saw the same things he always had in Angelo’s, that first night. They’d known each other for just over a day, and here he was flirting with Sherlock. That was why Sherlock had corrected John, explaining that the Work was more important. It had been true at the time. He’d had no interest in a relationship. The very idea had been all but abhorrent, but Sherlock still wanted John as an assistant. So Sherlock had tred carefully in his reply. But it was John’s response that had made him think that John was heterosexual. But the more he thought about it, the more it seemed out of place. None of their other interactions fit into that category.  
In fact, if it weren’t for John’s numerous vehement objections to being placed in a relationship with Sherlock and the fact that he frequently screamed at everyone that he wasn’t gay, Sherlock would have thought his flatmate absolutely enamored with him. Perhaps Sherlock had misjudged something. Perhaps -

Sherlock heard John begin to wake, and he quickly fled his Mind Palace. This was a topic he could peruse later. For now, his focus was on John Watson, currently laying in a hospital bed.  
John stretched lightly in bed, forehead creasing as he realized he wasn’t in his bed in 221b. John opened his eyes, and for a few moments, Sherlock could believe that he was right, that John hadn’t remembered anything. That maybe this secret would stay secret. That this weakness, this inability to say 'no’ to Captain John Watson, his flatmate and best friend, would stay hidden, so that no one could ever wield John against Sherlock.  
And then John flushed a deep red.  
“I, uh, I guess the cat’s out of the bag.” John looked down at his bedsheets, one hand clenching and relaxing, the other hand rubbing at the back of his neck. The cat was most certainly out of the bag. Sherlock allowed himself a few moments before he took a deep breath, steeling himself.  
“I can understand if you want to pretend that this never happened, John. I would not dare to hold it against you. You weren’t yourself.” Sherlock couldn’t look John in the eye, couldn’t see the man’s relief suffuse over his features.  
What he didn’t expect was for a calloused hand to slip in between his two. “Why would I want to forget that?”  
Sherlock jerked his head up, had to do more than just hear his voice say the words.  
“I may have looser lips when I’m fresh out of surgery, but not a single thing crossed my lips that I have not said to you dozens of times in my head.” Sherlock searched the other man’s face desperately, seeking out a lie as he would seek it out in a suspect. He didn’t even breathe, refused to until he knew that John wasn’t lying. He would not have John Watson fake a relationship just for Sherlock’s benefit.  
But there was no lie. There was only John’s heart, bared for Sherlock to observe and deduce. And with that, a puff of air left Sherlock’s lungs. He wasn’t lying.  
“Why?”  
“You said that you were married to your work all that time ago. Why should I ever believe that I had a chance?”  
“You always shouted that you weren’t gay.”  
“I’m not,” John answered, a slight growl in his voice. “I would have thought that the many skirts I chased spoke for that.” Sherlock’s pulse jumped at his growl.  
“But did you ever notice that I was never heartbroken over them?” His flatmate asked, and Sherlock had to admit that was true. John would mope for roughly 8-12 hours, but that was all.  
“I never entered a relationship with the idea that it was long term. We all knew that it was just dating, nothing serious. In the end, they all wanted something more serious than I could give them.” That explained some of the nastier breakups, the looks that Sherlock got when they left.  
“If you weren’t heterosexual, why did you never date any men? London is a large city, I’m sure there are many men would have been flattered by your attention.”  
John chuckled, blushing and looking down. “And that’s where the cat slips out.” He took a deep breath. “How could any man compare to you? You’re gorgeous, intelligent, talented.” John’s eyes caressed Sherlock’s face, tracing lines and features Sherlock realized John had long since memorized.  
“But you were married to your work, so I never pushed you. I was more than happy just to be your friend, to be someone you trusted. How could I ruin that trust by pushing you for something you clearly didn’t want?”  
“And if I said that I’d changed my mind? That I wasn’t in such a strict marriage to my Work? That I might wish to entertain someone else?” This was it. This was Sherlock putting his closely guarded heart out for John Watson’s examination. He didn’t know what he would do if John found him wanting, but he could no longer walk away from John. Not after he had said those words.  
“Then I would be flattered and honored to stand by your side, in any and every way you wish me to.”  
A laugh escaped Sherlock’s lips, relieved that his heart still lived, now thrived in John Watson’s care. He gripped the hand in his tighter, reaching out for the other hand before changing his mind and placing it on John’s cheek, right over the spot he had kissed. John in turned began to grin, that silly, stupid grin they shared at crime scenes, that grin that told him he was enjoying himself.  
“So, does that mean I still get my dinner?” John prompted, an eyebrow wiggling as Sherlock blushed.  
“As long as the other doctors approve,” Sherlock conceded. He didn’t wish to push John too soon after surgery, albeit minor surgery.  
“Oh, I think you can trust this doctor’s word. I’ll be fine for dinner. And if I don’t feel well, you will be the first person I tell. Now, if I may have my dessert?” John finished his request with a lick of his own lips.  
Sherlock’s pulse jumped as he slowly moved forward, closing the distance between them. And when their lips touched, it was better than Sherlock had dreamed. Before too long, Sherlock had to break the kiss, and both men breathed a little harder.  
“Why did you stop?”  
“I wasn’t going to have our first kiss interrupted by doctors worrying over your heart’s condition.” With that reminder, John blushed before moving his hand from Sherlock’s grasp to his cheek.  
“I think I could get used to this very quickly. What do you think?”  
“As quickly as you desire, John.” With that, both men smiled at each other.  
Dinner turned out magnificently, or so John would always recall. Sherlock would always say that the meal could have been better, had John allowed him to take them to a nicer restaurant, but John had insisted on Angelo’s. This time, they appreciated the candle, and had repeated their initial conversation, albeit with a different ending. After dinner, they returned to 221b, where Sherlock delivered on his promise of a concerto. And for quite some time, the flat was filled with the beautiful sounds of Sherlock’s violin. It wasn’t until after he finished that John confessed that he had no idea what Sherlock had been playing, but that he thoroughly enjoyed it. Sherlock beamed at his boyfriend, informing him that it was something he’d written long ago for John. After that, the night was a blur of kisses and touches. But both men clearly remembered waking up in the same bed the next morning, wrapped in each others embrace.  
It was the first of many similar nights.


End file.
